When John woke up, it was nearly four in the afternoon. Properly disgusted with the fact, John grabbed his dressing gown and headed downstairs for a shower. After he checked on Sherlock, of course.

Incidentally, both options went hand-in-hand, as John found Sherlock leaning over the bathroom sink.

"Sherlock? What's wrong?"

Sherlock just shook his head, spitting blood into the sink.

"Hey, hey, hey, don't do that," John said, crossing the room. "You're going to interfere with the blood clots."

"There's blood in my mouth, John. What else would you like me to do with it?" Sherlock retorted irritably.

John picked up the nearby mug and filled it with cool water. "Here. Rinse. You need to put some gauze against those. It'll help the bleeding."

Sherlock rinsed his mouth out, setting the mug down again. "I'm not putting gauze in my mouth. That's disgusting."

"It's that or a tea bag."

"Do we actually have tea bags?"

"We do, actually."

Sherlock sighed. "Where did you put the gauze...?"

John smiled. "Study desk. How's your fever?"

Sherlock muttered something unintelligible and walked out of the bathroom.

John shook his head slightly and, resisting the urge to follow Sherlock to make sure he wouldn't experiment on the bleeding of his mouth or whatever, John just closed the bathroom door.

He'd let Sherlock have a bit of privacy, for now.

John didn't linger in the shower. He had just shampooed his hair and was ready to step back under the rush of water when there was a knock on the bathroom door.

Sherlock usually didn't knock. (To be fair, Sherlock didn't usually bother him during a shower.)

"What?" John called over the rush of the shower.

"Am I supposed to be nauseous?" was the weak reply.

"Er..." John stepped under the water, closing his eyes. "Did you check the information that I brought home?"

"No..."

"What do you expect from me? I'm a doctor, not a dentist!" John called.

John heard Sherlock's groan of annoyance.

"Well, look, you have an infection, so it's possible. Avoid vomiting if you can help it, though... It'll bother your gums."

"Well, I'm not going to vomit if I can help it," Sherlock retorted.

John sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, chasing away the traces of any lingering shampoo. "Give me a second!"

He was out of the shower in the few minutes, dried off and clad in his dressing gown, as he opened the bathroom door. Sherlock was leaning against the hallway, looking more pale than usual, and highly uncomfortable.

"How bad is it?" John asked, crossing the distance between them and laying a hand on Sherlock's forehead.

"Could be better."

"I'm sure... I need to take your temperature. I just got out of the shower, so compared to the hot water, you don't feel warm. I'm sure you probably still have a fever."

"Shouldn't the antibiotic make it go away...?" Sherlock mumbled.

"The fever and nausea?" John asked, pawing through the counter to find their thermometer. "Yeah, it will. But you can't expect it to work all at once and- aha, there it is-" he dislodged the thermometer from behind three different bottles of mouthwash- "you need to be resting or you're not going to be feeling better at all. Did you sleep at all?"

"Yes," Sherlock murmured. "I only woke up because I tasted blood in my mouth..."

"So, you weren't awake long before I woke up?" John asked, disinfecting the thermometer with a good dose of alcohol.

Sherlock shook his head.

"Okay, good," John said. He rinsed the thermometer and dried it off, handing it to Sherlock.

Sherlock powered the device on, staring at the display sulkily for a moment before placing it under his tongue.

John sighed and glanced at himself in the mirror. He still looked tired. Inexplicably, he was still tired. Apparently a night taking care of an incoherent Sherlock Holmes did that.

The thermometer beeped and John took it before Sherlock could. His eyes immediately were drawn to the temperature display- thirty-nine point one- before he pressed the power button again.

"It's at thirty-nine."

"Not too bad," Sherlock said, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead.

"Not too good," John muttered. "You have a headache?"

Sherlock nodded infinitesimally.

"Have you had paracetamol lately?"

"No... I don't really want any, either."

John had just picked up the bottle of paracetamol, but now he looked at Sherlock. "What? Why? It's the only thing that's going to help your headache, asides from the antibiotics."

"Because I don't think it'll stay down," Sherlock retorted.

"Oh." John fumbled with the paracetamol for a moment. Either Sherlock dealt with his own headache without the paracetamol, or took the paracetamol and maybe ended up vomiting. Considering a headache was probably less worse than Sherlock vomiting and irritating his gums... Well, neither option was good. "Well, paracetamol later, if you can wait."

"I'll wait," Sherlock said automatically.

"Go back to sleep," John said, closing the medicine cabinet. He fixed his dressing gown, tying the sash a bit more carefully. "Well. I'm going to get dressed. I'll make you a cuppa afterwards. Back to bed."

"Chamomile," Sherlock said, traipsing back towards his bedroom.

"Fine." John turned away, walking to the stairs and to his bedroom.

After he had dressed, John returned to the kitchen to make Sherlock that cup of chamomile tea. However, when he entered Sherlock's bedroom, he found the detective already asleep, sprawled out across the bed.

It never failed to hit John just how vulnerable Sherlock looked when he slept.

John shook his head, setting the steaming cup of tea on the nightstand. He hesitated for a moment before draping the blanket carefully over Sherlock's sleeping form.

Sherlock mumbled something under his breath, curling up. John froze, holding his breath- he didn't want to wake him up, he really didn't- but Sherlock sighed sleepily and seemed to nod off again.

John sighed, stepping back. He turned for the hall, planning on finding the newspaper to read or something on the telly to watch.

"Than's for the tea..." Sherlock slurred, making John jump.

John looked back at Sherlock, prepared to say something along the lines of I thought you were sleeping! when the gentle snoring of his flatmate reached his ears.

John smiled faintly and closed Sherlock's bedroom door with a quiet click.

While I was writing this, I was thinking there'd be another chapter. But, now I think this is the final chapter, and yes... it is. So, thank you for all who have followed this story and enjoyed it, thank you for the favs and follows and reviews! It means a ton!

I do not own Sherlock.

Thank you!